


Three’s the Charm

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chess, Explicit Sexual Content, Jim likes them young, Lots of mentions of pain, M/M, Origin Story, Outstanding talents, Polyamory, Sherlock vs Jim, Torture, Triplets, and slightly creepy ones, because Morans are better in threes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian kills because he’s good at it. Severin loves the thrill of a good brawl. Seanán is an artist of death. Why have one attack dog when you can have three? If the Morans came as a set Jim wanted the full collection.</p><p>The problem is his latest obsession, a certain dark detective...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim meets them in a pub called the Fat Housewife. The interior is as charming as the name, full of smoke, the only sound the racing on TV. The trio are slumped around a table in matching leather jackets, their blonde hair cropped short, looking up at him with the same long noses and matching square jaws. They can’t be more than seventeen but they’re all at least six foot and solid and utterly gorgeous.

“You boys look like you need another round.”

“Won’t say no to that.” The one on the left leans back, elbows on the edge of the chair. He’s got a huge bruised black eye and Jim touches it gently, clucking his tongue.

“Walk into a door?”

“I had a dispute with some gents over a poker game.”

“How did that go?”

“They saw things my way.”

Jim waves to the bartender and takes a seat, crossing his legs as the triplets stare at him with eerily similar blue eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

“Moriarty.” Says the one in the centre, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he fumbles with his lighter.

“You run things.” The poker player nods.

“I do, and I’m constantly looking for bright young things to help me. Is that you?”

“Could be,” The smoker takes a drag, “What do you need?”

“What can you offer?”

“I shoot. Severin gambles a bit, does some enforcing. He’s good with his fists.”

“So I can see.”

“Seanán’s more of a specialist.”

Jim raises his brows. “What kind of specialist?”

“Pain.”

Jim’s eyes light up as he looks at the silent youth to his right. “Reaaaaally? How fun.”

The bartender sets their drinks in front of them and Jim hands him a large note with a look that says to fuck off out of earshot. Either the look or the suit makes an impression, because he retreats as far as the kitchen.

“What would you say to a demonstration?”

The boys look at each other. Severin leans in.

“When can we start?”

*****

Sebastian’s test is a shot across three rooftops into the left temple of a banker while he’s on top of his mistress. Jim watches him pull the trigger and calmly pack up the rifle, some trace of gawkiness still left in his posture as he shoulders the case. He’s a little awed by the calloused fingers on the strap.

“Oh honey you’re fucking hired. I hope that talent runs in the family.”

 

Severin’s is in the darkness of a cavernous warehouse. He strips down to his singlet and jeans, shining metal dog tags lying on his chest.

“You were in the army?”

“Basic training. We all were. Dad’s dream really, raising a bunch of proud British officers.”

“How did that go?” Jim smirks.

“Seb was thrown out for poaching, I got done for fighting, and Seanie was politely asked to leave because he was scaring the crap out of his C.O.”

Severin moves in a blur Jim can barely follow. He breaks bone with a crack, dislocating one man’s arm before punching another in the temple and literally strangling the last. He drags the choking man over to Jim nonchalantly as his huge hands squeeze the life out of the unfortunate crook.

“What else have you got?”

 

Seanán’s takes place in one of Jim’s underground clinics. He scans the room in a second and composes his face so that even Jim can’t tell what he’s thinking, sizing up the bound, gagged and blindfolded man on the table.

“Requests?” he unbuttons his coat, hanging it by the door and taking off his shirt.

“Make him suffer. We don’t need anything else from him.”

Sean nods and ties on an apron. He runs a hand softly along the man’s face, making him murmur against the gag. Moran takes a long, hooked instrument from a side bench, eyes flicking to Jim. The consulting criminal smiles with excitement.

An hour later Seanán lays down his hammer and steps back from the table, untying his apron strings. Jim stares at the messy remains with the same silent wide-eyed look he’s had for the past fifty-eight minutes before _finally_ managing to find his tongue.

“You didn’t learn that in the army.”

*****

They move into his flat and start handling his trickier jobs. Jim knows most people pay no mind to well-dressed, handsome teenagers. They pass unnoticed, they’re constantly underestimated. The three Morans are ruthless, effective and very, very good at cleaning up messes. They also eat more than anyone he’s ever seen.

“If you lot keep this up I’ll have to hire a kitchen staff.” Jim grumbles as he pours himself another coffee.

“We’re growing.” Severin complains.

“God I hope not.”

“Relax, boss. Have a pancake.” Sebastian pushes a plate towards him.

“I don’t eat before three.”

“You what?” he makes a face.

“Have we got anything on tonight?” Severin stuffs another mountain of syrupy pancake into his mouth.

“Sean’s busy with Mr Redbone but there’s nothing for you two. Why?”

“There’s a game in Docklands I wanted to get in on.”

“Go ahead. Try not to lose too much money.”

“I never lose it in the end though, do I?” he winks.

“What about you, Sebby? Plans?”

He shrugs. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“Perhaps we should go out then. Blow off a little steam. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, run along children! People to intimidate and kill!” Jim waves over his shoulder as he heads back to his study.

They watch him go, Sev finishing his mouthful and smirking.

“God, the boss is a looker.”

“Shut up, he’ll hear you.” Seb mutters.

“What, you don’t think so?”

“I didn’t say that. You’d have to be crazy to do anything about it though.”

Seanán looks up. “You’re forgetting Severin _is_ crazy.”

Sev waggles his brows. “Shall we make it a wager who can get to him first?”

“No, no wagers, no chasing the boss. Shut up and eat your damn breakfast.”

“You just want him all to yourself.”

Sebastian’s last pancake hits him square in the face. Sev chuckles and catapults off his chair, tackling his brother to the kitchen floor. They wrestle very quietly, wary of disturbing Jim. Seanán watches as he chews, rolling them away with a foot when they get too close.

 

When his brothers have both left for the evening Seb knocks on Jim’s bedroom door.

“Boss?”

“Come in.”

He opens it hesitantly. Moriarty’s putting the final touches to his shirt collar. It’s much more relaxed than his normal style; a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black pants. Sebastian catches himself staring before pushing Sev’s stupid idea aside.

“The car’s waiting.”

“Excellent.”

They head downstairs and climb in, chatting idly about business during the ride. The smaller space only makes Sebastian more aware of Jim’s presence. He turns away to hide a blush when the older man catches him staring and misses Jim’s smug smile.

He’s technically underage but the bouncers don’t give them any trouble. Jim ushers him in with a hand on the small of his back and Sebastian raises a brow.

“Aren’t _I_ supposed to be looking out for _you_?”

“I highly doubt I’ll be attacked here, but if I am I give you full permission to take over. Drink?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“No need to thank me, Sebby. You’re mine now, and I look after my things.”

The boy looks confused for a moment before smiling pleasantly and Jim suppresses a giggle. He’s so cute, watching him when he thought Moriarty wasn’t looking, fidgeting in the car. He clearly wants the other man – and Jim can’t blame him. But the feeling is more than mutual. Sebastian’s muscles fill out his shirt so well, his blue eyes are so clear. He’s fucking edible. Jim gets them both a drink and leads the way to the VIP lounge.

“I know the manager.” He answers Sebastian’s questioning look.

“Of course. You know everyone, right?” he smirks.

“All the people worth knowing.”

They settle back to watch the others in the room. They’re supposed to be glamorous, but Sebastian finds himself pitying the half-dressed and obviously strung-out losers around them. None of them are here with the dark pillar of strength called Jim Moriarty.

“So Severin said you were thrown out of the military for poaching?” he sips his drink.

Sebastian shrugs. “They say poaching, I say hunting.”

“What were you hunting?”

“The tigers at the London Zoo.”

Jim laughs, his teeth a warning flash of white. “Did you bag one?”

Sebastian raises his glass in a salute. “Got it as far as Mayfair before I had to ditch it. It was gone when I went back.”

“Shame. There’s nothing like a good trophy. Were you upset you didn’t get to be an army lad?”

Sebastian shrugs. “Not really. I don’t like cages.”

“Seems you had something in common with the tiger.”

 

They’ve had substantially more drinks when Jim leans back against the couch and glances over. His eyes linger a little too long over the planes of Seb’s chest, the ridge of his belt. The teenager raises a brow and stands.

“One second, boss.”

He walks over to the bouncer and mutters to him, palming a note into his hand, and a moment later the man’s clearing the room in a hail of complaints and groaning. They shuffle out though, afraid of being barred altogether, until it’s just Jim on the couch and Sebastian leaning against the closed door.

“You’re a perfect lieutenant, Bastian. Anticipating the general’s thoughts before he voices them.”

“I aim to please, sir.” His tongue rolls coyly over the word as he makes his way back to the couch.

Jim sits up with interest as Seb unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall as he straddles the other man’s lap. He wraps a strong hand around the back of Jim’s neck, lips hovering just out of reach in a question. Jim answers by tugging their faces together, hands running up his back. He traces the long welts that crisscross the skin, breaking away to frown.

“Da can be stubborn.” The boy juts his chin out.

“A trait I’ve noticed in you.”

“He noticed too.” His lips quirk to the side.

Jim kisses him again, admiring the rounded solid muscle under his hands, the rough fingertips brushing against his neck. He can feel Sebastian’s arousal poking his stomach, only rivalled by his own growing need.

“Take your pants off.”

The blond gets up to obey and Jim hurries around the room, looking for anything useful. There’s plenty of champagne and drugs and fucking glitter, but nothing even resembling lubricant.

“Come on, don’t these cokeheads ever get busy?” he mutters, feeling under the couch.

His fingers brush something and he pulls out a small tin of cocoa butter. It’s better than nothing. He turns to find a naked Sebastian sprawled over the couch, idly stroking himself. Jim almost moans at the sight of his cock. It’s thick, a good length without being ridiculous, and swollen at the tip. He crosses the room and kneels between Sebastian’s legs, leaning down to attack his chest in a flurry of bites and scratches. The boy arches up, hands still gentle as they grasp at Jim’s hair.

He sticks his fingers in the tub, slathering them as much as possible before tracing Sebastian’s ring. The boy’s clearly not a virgin, but Jim wonders if he’s ever been taken before. He doesn’t really seem the type. His fingers slip inside and Seb’s more accepting than he expects, writhing a little on the leather as he growls.

“Oh Sebby, what a pretty little thing you are – and all mine.”

Jim wiggles, spreading him as far as possible before he starts thrusting further. As his nails brush the bump of his prostate Seb curses and clings to his arms. Jim grins, teeth nipping at his shoulder as he thrusts again. He coats his prick with the remaining cocoa butter and removes his fingers, ignoring the soft grunt that accompanies it as he lines himself up. Jim lunges forward, eyes crossing at the uncomfortably tight fit of Sebastian around him.

“Jeeeeeesus.” He moans, hands clenched on the cushion.

Sebastian lets out a great sigh and Jim meets his eyes. There’s a light there he hasn’t seen before, something wild he’d expect from Severin. He can sense the violent reaction Seb’s only just controlling. He holds his arse firmly to keep them both in place before rolling off the couch, wheezing through the brief winding as Sebastian lands on top of him.

“Boss?”

“You drive.”

Sebastian looks at Jim like he’s just said the magic words. His face takes on an expression so predatory Jim decides one day he _has_ to let the boy top, even if it’s not for years. He can imagine those same tanned hands gripping his chest, the arms and shoulders once Sebastian’s finished growing into them, trim hips pounding against him…definitely a project for the future.

For now Sebastian rocks on top of him with the supple rolling of hips he expects from a beast or a seductress, his head tipped back as he rides Jim into the floor.

  

Once they’ve picked themselves up and rearranged their clothing Seb becomes aware of the ache spreading through him. It will be worse tomorrow but for now he’s got the high of his climax to hold the creaks at bay, and he’s got Jim’s smile for when it gets too much.

“I hope you don’t think that was a one-time thing, Sebby,” he whispers obscenely as they leave, “Because I’m not letting you get away that easily.”

The claim gives him a delicious shudder as they climb into the car.

 

Severin takes one look at the two of them over breakfast and laughs, sticking his tongue in his cheek.

“Guess you won then.”

“Told you Sev, it wasn’t a wager.”

 

When Sebastian gets home from his next job there’s an enormous orange tiger pelt on his bed. It’s not the one he killed, can’t be, but he smiles all the same.

*****

Severin sings in the shower – loudly. Horribly. No amount of complaining will stop him; no cold water can force him out. Jim’s trying to work through a very tricky piece of code when he decides he’s had enough. He bursts into the lounge room, eyes giving off that extra unhinged vibe. Sebastian sits on the couch polishing his rifle while Seanán reads. Neither of them seems to notice the singing but they’re probably used to it. Jim stalks past them to the bathroom, belting on the door before he opens it.

“Severin! If you don’t shut up I’m going to make you eat your teeth!”

The blond’s already stopped, looking over his shoulder in surprise. Jim quickly becomes aware that he’s completely naked, steam rising around youthful muscle and scarred skin. He pushes aside a spike of desire, trying to remember he’s mad, but it’s too late – Sev’s smirking.

“Sorry boss, I’ll try to keep it down when you’re planning world domination.”

“You know, with an attitude like that it’s not surprising people are always trying to bash your face in.”

“You’re welcome to give it a try.”

Jim bites his tongue to stop a smile. “Really? You think you could handle me?”

“I’m certain.”

Jim looks long enough to confirm Sev’s as endowed as his brother and unties his robe, letting it fall as he tugs down his pants. He climbs into the shower next to Severin and runs his face under the water, smoothing it out of his eyes as he grins up at the taller man.

“Ready Sevvie?”

Jim doesn’t wait for an answer. His mouths crashes into Sev’s with bruising force, hands clutching right for his crotch without warning. The youth scrambles for a moment, falling back against the shower screen before he finds his feet. The second he’s balanced he shoves Jim against the wall, fingers tangling in his hair as he bites his lower lip. All Sev’s wild, violent energy is channelled right at Jim and the man moans anxiously, wanting more.

“Maybe it’s you who can’t handle me, Jimmy.” He chuckles, nose skimming along Jim’s neck.

The criminal snarls and tightens his fingers around Sev’s neck, squeezing hard. The blond backs off, dropping to his knees at Jim’s insistent push.

“Use your mouth for something more productive, Sevvie.”

He winks at Jim and leans in, taking him down in one stroke. Jim tips his head back against the wall and revels in the warm touch of the water and the tight lips closed around his head, fingers kneading at Severin’s shoulders. The boy knows what he’s doing but it’s not so much skill as pure enthusiasm. Jim feels like Sev’s going to swallow him whole. He digs his nails into Sev’s scalp and the youth just smiles, hands pinching at Jim’s hips.

 

After that he splits his time between Sebastian and Sev, inviting the insolent man in when he needs a good ravishing and turning to Bastian when he wants obedience and the cold, restrained power that appeals to his ego and promises better to come. He likes to enter Severin in underground boxing and then fuck him in the locker room with the blood still on his hands; he likes to do Sebastian in alleys with the rifle case at their feet. Neither seems unhappy with the arrangement, and he wonders exactly how many times they’ve done this before.

The only Moran he never touches is Seanán. As fascinating as his talents are, they don’t inspire Jim with much in the way of lust. He poses the question to Sebastian one night, their limbs still tangled together under the sheets.

“Does Sean ever...I dunno, date? Fuck? Act like a normal teenage boy?”

The bigger man shrugs. “I’ve never seen him with anyone.”

Jim lifts his head onto his hand. “It’s not like he couldn’t. He’s as pretty as the rest of you, and people love the quiet act.”

“Maybe he just hasn’t found anyone worth the effort yet. Sean tends to do exactly what he wants and nothing more.”

It’s that comment Jim remembers when he finds himself walking out of his study at midnight to an almost empty flat. Seanán’s watching a movie in the dark, the light of the screen flicking over his tanned skin. It makes him look like all the colour’s been leached out of him, his eyes piercing in the gloom.

“Where are the others?” Jim rubs his neck.

“Sebastian’s still in Hamburg and Sev went to a match in Southwark. You don’t remember?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Are you hungry?”

Jim thinks about it. “Starved.”

“I’ll see what’s in the fridge.” He gets up and heads for the kitchen.

It’s one of the longest conversations they’ve ever had and Jim follows him with some interest. Maybe Seanán needs solitude to be himself. Usually his much louder brothers are around getting all the attention, and he imagines it’s always been that way. The blond rifles through the fridge and looks over his shoulder.

“I think I can whip up a very basic tomato and cheese pasta, bit of basil. Is that okay?”

“Sounds divine.” Jim settles on the island stool to watch.

The youth starts gathering his ingredients, putting water on to boil as he grabs a knife and chopping board. He stands in front of Jim slicing tomatoes into precise, identical cubes as fast as any professional chef, the blade dancing in his hand.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“When Father and Seb were off shooting and Mother was trying to track Sev to whichever girl’s place he’d run off to, I used to go down to the kitchen and talk to the cooks. They were the most interesting people in the house.”

“They taught you to handle knives?”

He throws the vegetables in a pan and tosses them through the oil for a few moments, tipping the pasta into the bubbling pot.

 “Some of it. Father showed me how to kill and skin animals, how to butcher them. All the rest I picked up through my own...experiments.”

 

Jim feels a stirring curiosity. He’d like to hear more about that – had he hidden it from the others? Did he kill first, dissect later? The main question was _why_. Jim was never interested in the usual psychopathic childhood behaviours. Animals just aren’t as entertaining as people, and while fire can be fun it’s a bit primitive for his tastes. He can’t imagine how this quiet, studious boy could be swayed into savagery.

Sean plates it and sits on the stool beside Jim. He stabs a few pieces and holds the fork up. “Open.”

“I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, thank you.”

“Open.” He says again. It’s firm without being angry, just an instruction like you might get at the dentist. Jim reads the twinkle in his eye and decides to humour him, leaning forward. He closes his mouth around the offered bite and pulls it off the cutlery, chewing appreciatively.

“Superb. Perhaps you missed your calling, honey.”

He freezes as Seanán drags the points of the fork gently along his cheek, eyes raking Jim’s neck.

“You’re a captivating man, Jim.”

“Is that so? I’ve always thought as much.”

“Severin, he only sees you as a paycheck, a hot piece of arse and an excuse to bruise his knuckles. Sebastian thinks of you as the boss – you’re everything for him Father never was.”

“And what about you?” he murmurs as the fork trails lower, pressing into his chest.

“You’re the cleverest man I’ve ever met. I like clever men. And you’re clever enough to be afraid of me, which doesn’t happen very often.”

“Who says I’m afraid of you?”

“Jim, Jim, Jim, I of all people know what fear looks like. It’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

He sneers. “I disagree. To be afraid you have to have something you don’t want to lose.”

“You’re not easy to scare because you read people as easily as children’s books, even the most complex people, but you look at me and you get nothing. And that scares you, because the thing you fear losing is what makes you clever.”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of Jim’s ear.

“Don’t fret about it, sweet. No one figures me out.”

Jim turns his head slowly so their foreheads are pressed together, eyes so close it almost hurts to look at each other. Seanán’s right. His face is so blank, so unreadable that even now he can’t tell if this is a power play or a joke or a seduction.

Jim breaths out shakily. His voice is thick with wonder and surprise. “You’re hiding in plain sight.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

 

He grabs Seanán’s shirt, a hand pushing the pasta onto the floor as he climbs on the edge of the island. Jim pulls Sean flush against him, legs curling around the boy’s waist as he kisses him. He rips the shirt up Sean’s torso, hands trailing over the hard muscle beneath. He’s not as fit as his brothers, his talents less reliant on strength or speed, but he’s still got an athletic figure. His skin is smoother too, unmarred by signs of old fights like Sev’s or old beatings like Bastian’s. Sean breaks away to let him pull the shirt all the way off and cups Jim’s face in his hand, lips finding his again.

The criminal’s squirming on the countertop like a girl kissing her first boyfriend on the couch. Sean’s nimble fingers move quickly, not asking permission before unbuttoning his shirt and dragging it off. He undoes the trousers too but ignores the growing tent for now, palms roaming over Jim’s back and torso instead. His teeth scrape along Jim’s jugular and the criminal shivers. Seanán is the anatomy expert, knows the right points where a flash of pain or pleasure can ripple through the whole body. He plays Jim like some kind of complicated piano, his moans a harmony that rises and falls desperately. He feels almost helpless at the younger man’s hands, the thought making him quiver.

“Use your knives, baby.”

Sean stops, nostrils flaring as he studies Jim’s face. “No.”

“No?”

“You’re not prey.”

Jim chuckles. “I feel like I am.”

“You’re not prey I can _finish_.”

The Irishman raises his chin. “Ah.”

He can see the grim set of Sean’s jaw, the tiniest hint of fear in his gaze. He knows he can’t stop once he gets started. Jim runs his fingers up Seanán’s neck.

“Alright. Daddy understands.”

Moran’s hand drifts lower, sweeping to the waistband of Jim’s pants. He’s painfully hard now, the flesh feverishly hot and swollen. Sean’s fingers dip in and draw it out, clasped gently over the base. His hand tightens, dragging up so slowly Jim can feel every crease of his fingers, every bump on his palm. His head ducks down, mouth closing over Jim’s length and then moving away again so fast he barely has time to register the hot wet hollow, surprising a yell out of him. Seanán uses the spit to help his motions, massaging in a way that feels good but is never going to get Jim off. He just wants him to hover like that, pushed along with a low, soft pleasure that never builds the way he needs it.

 

Jim lasts maybe five minutes – a champion effort, he tells himself – before his hand closes over Sean’s and forces him to speed up. The teenager immediately stops, squeezing just enough to pry another cry from his lips.

“No.”

“Seanie, it’s not nice to tease the boss.”

“Oh, it really is.”

The mocking ice in his eyes makes Jim’s hand fall away. He leans in close, chests touching as he strokes again.

“You know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

“How long?”

“Since you walked into that damn pub.”

“Is that right?”

“Wanted to take you over the table right there.”

“I think the landlord would have had some thoughts about that.”

“I would have killed him, and fucked you on his corpse.”

His words are doing what his hand won’t, making Jim’s breath catch in his throat. He digs his nails into Sean’s arms but it doesn’t satisfy him.

“Nobody ever fucks me, darling. That’s sort of my whole philosophy.”

When he thinks about it later, Jim can’t decide if he meant it as a challenge or not.  But as soon as Seanán’s mouth pricks up he knows he’s in trouble. The bigger man pins him back against the island, legs holding Jim in place as he pulls off the brunette’s trousers.

“You shouldn’t be so dogmatic, James.”

He pulls his belt open, exposing himself to Jim’s frenzied gaze. Sean matches his brothers exactly, something that didn’t bother Jim when it was only his mouth involved, but the growing threat to his arse gives some cause for concern. Seanán rubs against him, only _just_ tall enough to reach. Jim steels himself for an attempted breech, but instead the youth just runs his hands along Jim’s bare legs. He waits, breathing calming as Sean’s hands soothe and stroke. They cross his stomach, his arms, the crook of his elbows. Moran rolls his hips and Jim finds himself pushing back, groaning at the friction. But he still doesn’t make a move, just touching gently and expertly as if he’s mapping out Jim’s tendons.

The odd accidental brushes aren’t enough; Jim’s ready to go now but he’s got no leverage to make it happen. He pushes his groin up slightly, hoping Seanán will take the hint or show some pity and engulf him again. Instead the blond raises a brow.

“Did you want something?”

 

Jim could scream. If fact, if the neighbour downstairs wasn’t such a nosy bitch he would. He sticks out his lower lip in a huff, contemplating just _ordering_ Sean to finish him off and then leaving the boy hard to suffer. It would be karma for this teasing. But then Seanán’s speciality is torture, isn’t it? A speciality he’s mastered faster than most of Jim’s best people. Even now he’s got _Jim_ , Jim who cowers for no one, shivering with need.

He sees that same determined look he’s used to from Sebastian and knows this is only going to end one way. Sean always gets his intended result.

“Do it then!” he beats his fists against the boy’s shoulders, “Fuck me, love.”

He grins but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. Jim howls in outrage. He’s literally grovelling, lowering himself like a common whore, and Sean still holds out?

He’s in the middle of this thought when something solid and hot slams into him. Jim does scream, neighbours be damned, legs wrapping around Seanán like a python as he holds on for either his life or his sanity. He gets a second to recover, to try to anchor himself and fail, and then the boy’s thrusting so fast Jim’s sliding back and forth on the marble surface. He’s never been _opened_ like this, not in anything but a purely physical sense anyway. The last time Jim let someone top him was high school, and even then it had only been the once. This is _nothing_ like that. This is being in the hands of an animal higher up the food chain; this is being in someone else’s control and never wanting them to let go. Jim arches his back and rolls, drawing him in as deep as he can.

 

Sebastian makes it home before Sev the next morning, dumping his duffel bag on the floor by the couch. He walks into the kitchen and stops when he sees the plate shattered on the floor, pasta everywhere. He draws the gun from his waistband before he notices the discarded clothing by the island. Still wary, Seb creeps towards the bedrooms. Severin and Sean’s are empty, and with a steady head he opens Jim’s door just enough to stick his head through.

Jim and Seanán are curled together under the blankets, the brunette’s head on his brother’s chest. Sebastian can only blink in shock for a moment before Sean cracks an eyelid.

“Shut the door would you Seb?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.”

He closes it carefully, holstering his gun again. The front door opens loudly and he looks up as Severin stumbles in.

“I take it you had a good night.”

“Fantastic!” he waves a hand, falling onto the couch.

Seb moves to lean over the backrest. “Bet it wasn’t as good as Sean’s.”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

“I just found him in the boss’s bed.”

Severin sits up sharply, moaning as he’s hit with a sudden ache in his side. “No shit?”

“No shit. Check out the destruction in the kitchen if you don’t believe me.”

“He’s always loved the damn kitchen.”

“So, looks like he’s not as icy as we thought.”

“Think he’ll share? I don’t wanna have to fight him. Little bastard’s got all these new tricks.”

“We’re brothers, Sev. I’m sure he’ll go thirds.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

** _10 years later_ **

 

Sebastian’s fielding a call from Prague, answering his emails, cooking an omelette and reloading his gun at the same time when someone walks up behind him and wraps their arms around his waist.

“Morning.” Jim presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“Morning, boss. Breakfast is in five.”

“Where’s your brother?”

Sebastian points to the couch. Severin has at least managed to take his boots off before passing out, his length taking up the entire sofa. Jim wanders over and slaps him, cooing internally when the man jerks awake and grabs his wrist.

“Jim?” The fierce light in his eyes fades back into glazed fatigue as soon as he recognises his boss.

“Wakey wakey, darling. How did it go with Anton?”

Sev smirks, that same cocky look he’s had since Jim met him, the one that makes him want to fuck Moran into the floor. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gold-plated tooth.

“He’s not going to be a problem anymore.”

“Go clean up. I’ve got a drug runner in Docklands who’s withholding.”

Sev picks himself off the couch and ambles towards the bathroom. Jim’s still mildly stunned by how much the boys filled out, adding only a few inches to their height but several pounds of muscle to their frames. Standing next to them he feels insignificant, but they dance to his tune all the same.

The bedroom door opens and Seanán walks in adjusting his cuffs. He’s the most formally dressed of the three (though compared to Seb in his pyjamas and Sev in last night’s clothes, that’s not hard). He moves straight to the couch and kisses Jim’s head.

“James.”

“Seanie. Are you working?”

“The Russian, remember? I’ll be back with a confession in two hours, tops.”

Jim curls his fingers in the other man’s hair. “Well hurry. I feel the need for a good long tussle.”

“I’m sure Bastian will oblige you in my absence.”

“He’s working.” Jim pouts.

“Sev then.”

He grins. “Now there’s an idea.”

He kisses Sean harder, getting up to follow Severin to the bathroom. The tormentor watches him with a half-grin before drifting to the kitchen.

“Breakfast?”

“No thanks, I work better on an empty stomach.”

“You’re getting as bad as him.” Sebastian jerks his head at the hall.

Seanán drops his voice, leaning in. “He’s been talking about Holmes again.”

Seb sighs. “Fucking great. He’s going to get himself killed at this rate.”

“I know.”

“Well what do you want me to do about it?”

He stares at the hallway for a long moment before shrugging. “Nothing we’re not already doing. See you later, Bastian.”

“Good hunting.”

 

In truth Jim’s growing obsession with the consulting detective worries all of them. They haven’t seen him this manic...well, ever. He shuts himself away, only coming out to eat or get more coffee. He’s not even working, just watching endless CCTV footage of Sherlock puzzling through his clues. Sebastian tries to force him to get some rest and is rewarded by a narrowly-avoided mug thrown at his head.

“Right, that’s fucking it.” He growls.

He stalks through the flat to Sev’s room, knocking on the wall. His brother’s smoking while he tinkers with some kind of flak jacket, but he looks up at the sound.

“Meeting in Sean’s room, now.”

He nods and sets the work aside, following Sebastian. Seanán’s door is closed, and they’ve learned by now not to barge in. There are still dents in the door from all the knives he’s thrown.

“Seanie?”

“Hmm?”

“We need to talk.”

There’s a click as he unlocks it and quickly ushers them in. “It’s Jim, isn’t it?”

“He’s losing his mind.” Seb presses his lips together.

“I can’t remember the last time he was so fixated on one job.” Sev nods, folding his arms as he leans back against Sean’s desk.

“Stop that,” he fusses, shooing him onto the bed, “You’ll prick yourself, you daft clod.”

“We have to intervene.”

Severin laughs. “How? He’ll fucking kill us if we take his new favourite toy away.”

“Then someone else needs to do it.” Seb says quietly.

“Huh?”

“We get rid of the detective and his doctor, frame someone else so it looks like a case gone wrong, Jim has a tantrum and orders us to kill the interferer and then gets over the whole mess. Everyone’s happy.”

Sean shakes his head. “He’ll never get over it if he doesn’t get his closure.”

“He’ll have to.”

“Jim never _has_ to do anything.”

Sev taps his thumb against his mouth, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “How do we speed up the closure then? He wants to drag out his little game until we’re all mental.”

Sean stares at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I might have an idea.”

“Well, spill.”

“I don’t think anyone’s gonna like it.”

Seb runs a hand through his hair. “Will it stop Jim?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll do it.”

*****

Sherlock learns that a rubber bullet to the temple is almost exactly as bad as a real one when he wakes with a splitting headache. He raises a hand to press against his skull in a pointless attempt to ease the pressure. His cheek feels grazed, probably from when he hit the pavement. He doesn’t remember being shot. He was walking back to Baker Street from the Tube station, and then...nothing. Sherlock quickly catalogues the rest of his body for aches or injuries and finds none. He opens his eyes. It’s very bright and it takes him a moment to adjust before he can make out his surroundings. He’s in a kind of black-walled interrogation room, but instead of a one-way mirror there’s something resembling an opera box with several seats. The floor is bare concrete, and the ceiling is very far above his head and very dark. Some kind of warehouse, perhaps? Spotlights hanging from the rafters provide the brilliant light. There’s a steel door but it has no handle or lock on this side. He’s still in his suit jacket but his coat and scarf are gone. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around.

“Hello? Moriarty?”

The silence isn’t comforting. He sits up properly, straining his senses harder for data. He can’t hear anything outside the building, but his voice echoes back so it must be big – probably a warehouse then. Impossible to tell if he’s still in London, or even England, but it seems likely. He has no visible needle marks to imply further sedation than the unfortunate bullet-related blackout.

“Did you get tired of the game Jim? How pedestrian.”

He gets to his feet, turning on the spot as he takes it all in. One of Jim’s facilities, but by would he bother bringing Sherlock here if he’s not going to torture him? There was nothing in the room or Jim’s previous behaviour that implied he would be so uncouth anyway.

The door opens and Sherlock’s head turns hurriedly. A tall, muscular blond with a set of silver dog tags leans against the wall, portal propped open with his foot. He’s in black jeans and a matching singlet that lets Sherlock see hundreds of scars, some deep, some short, some that should have killed him. A fighter then. Perhaps now they’d get to the beating and maiming.

“There’s been such a fuss over you. I don’t see the appeal myself – though I wouldn’t kick you out of bed, I s’pose.”

“You never kick anyone out of bed.” Another voice says in a similar low purr.

A second man walks in, carrying a steel chair in each hand. He’s identical to the first except for his outfit and not having quite so many marks. His t-shirt covers him a bit more, so Sherlock can’t tell if he’s got fewer scars or they’re just less visible. The fabric’s hitched up on one side, caught on his belt, and he can see a flash of blue-black ink on his hip but not enough to tell what it says. This one looks rough too, but more polished than the one who has to be his brother.

 

The second man sets the chairs facing each other, completely ignoring Sherlock. He heads out again for a moment and then returns wheeling a short, small table. It’s heavy though, marble by the looks of it with a chessboard inlaid in the top. A small wooden box sits in the middle, presumably with the pieces.

“He wants to play chess?” Sherlock raises a brow, surprised despite himself.

“We came to an arrangement of sorts.”

The third voice catches him completely unawares; somehow, probably while he was distracted watching the chess table, another man had come up behind him and now stood at his elbow. Sherlock turns to give this one a once-over too. He’s an exact look-alike for the other two but he’s in a sharp black shirt with a navy tie, his hair smoothed back a little more too. He watches Sherlock like a cat eying a mouse.

“Does Jim clone his own henchmen or are you just a natural wonder?”

“We’re unique, Mr Holmes. Allow me to introduce ourselves,” he points, “Severin, Sebastian and Seanán Moran.”

“Moran…sons of Sir Augustus?”

“Very good.”

His voice is so flat in contrast to his words. Sherlock frowns, scanning him again. He’s coming up blank. Seanán is as well-built as his brothers, but other than that Sherlock can’t sense anything about him. He’s completely closed off.

“Who are you?” he mutters, eyes flicking everywhere at once.

The man smiles. “I’m Moriarty’s. And I’m Jim’s. And today, today I might even be yours Mr Holmes.”

“Explain.”

“This is not an ordinary chess game.”

“I never thought it was.”

“There are several different games being played here, the most basic being that your hopes of living out the day rest on your success.”

“You want me to beat your boss? Seems terribly disloyal.”

“I didn’t say you should win, just that you should want to.”

“The other games?”

Seanán shrugs. “They’re more between us and Jim, actually.”

“It was Sean’s idea,” Sebastian supplies, “We were sick of watching you two chase each other around in circles.”

“Sean has all the best ideas.” Severin licks his canine.

Sherlock meets the blond’s eyes again and can’t help a shudder. “I bet he does.”

 

The door’s pushed open and Jim walks in with a huge smile. “All my favourite boys in one place!”

As if this is the signal, all three of them move to the seating at the side of the room. The door clicks shut behind Jim as he walks over and takes a seat at the table, waving for Sherlock to copy him. The detective doesn’t feel much like putting on a show, but he’s curious to know how this works so he sits.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice now, did I?”

“Yes, the boys were a bit eager to get this over and done with. They made a very unusual and reluctant offer to even get me to agree with it in the first place.”

“What kind of offer?”

Jim licks his lips and bats his lashes at the three blonds. “Take a guess, honey.”

Sherlock interprets this literally, studying the room’s occupants, the lazy way Sean watches him, the cocky slump of Severin in his chair, the careful deference of Sebastian. They’re clearly involved with Jim and have been for some time if they can persuade him to do anything. Important men to be watching him play a game of chess though...surely their presence isn’t a necessity. Then there was Jim’s leering taunt.

“You’re sleeping with all of them.”

“Easy.”

“And have been for some time.”

“Yes.”

“But they had to offer something you haven’t been able to coax from them by yourself...”

“Keep going, darling.”

It has to be something even these men would find unacceptable. His brows raise as he gets it. “Ah. They’ll perform together.”

Even as he says it Severin screws up his face a bit.

“Very good brainwork, Sherly! Yes, the boys have always been fairly resistant to it in the past but they’ve finally given in, provided we finish this now.”

“With chess?”

“I’m sure you can see how it works, Sherlock. You win you live, you lose you die.”

“And if we stalemate?”

“We start again tomorrow.” Jim grins.

“That’s it?”

“There might be a few other little rules thrown in there, but you’ll figure them out.”

This both worries and intrigues Sherlock, and he watches Jim silently as the other man unpacks the pieces and sets up his half of the board. He’s chosen black, the symbolism pathetically obvious, but then Jim does inane things like that.

“You think our game can be reduced to black and white squares and standardised rules? Where’s the challenge in that?”

“You’re judging before you have all the data, Sherly. Isn’t that your biggest no-no?”

He curls his lip. “I wouldn’t have picked you as the type to think with his prick.”

Jim grins. “Well that’s because you barely notice yours. Make your move, Sherly. I’ve got an orgy to get to.”

 

He scowls but moves his pawn forward. Jim counters quickly, barely looking at the board. Sherlock spares a glance for their spectators. Sebastian has his hands clasped in his lap, eyes distant as if he’s running through something else in his head. Severin looks openly bored, picking his nails, but Seanán watches intently with a guarded expression.

“I have to admit, they make an impressive three-headed attack dog.” He shifts his knight.

“You’ve got no idea. You should see them at work, Sherly – it would give you chills.”

“I have no interest in bully boys and gunmen.”

Jim catches the way his gaze flicks to Sean again and laughs. “A pretty mystery, isn’t he? I’ve always loved the ones you can’t figure out. Don’t worry, you’ll get to see his talents soon enough.”

They go eight moves each before Sherlock’s pawn finally catches one of Jim’s. The criminal’s expression sours as the detective sets it on his side of the board. Behind them Severin grins wolfishly and stands.

Sherlock frowns, but figures this must be what Jim said about extra rules. He feels a moment of apprehension as the big man approaches the table, but he ignores Sherlock completely. He grabs the back of Jim’s chair and drags him away from the table, moving to face him. At the current angle both Sherlock and the other Morans get a side profile of the two men, Jim looking up at his companion unhappily. Sebastian’s eyes are on his watch.

“Go.”

It’s like a hurricane being unleashed. Sherlock actually jumps in his seat, shocked by the violence of it as Severin hammers Jim’s abdomen, clips his jaw, his knees. Jim alternates between grunts and howls as he works methodically, nothing too brutal or damaging but certainly painful. Sherlock looks at Sean and Sebastian, almost worried now.

“Time!”

Severin stops instantly. Thirty seconds. It couldn’t have been more than that but Jim looks like he’s been worked over for hours, slumping in his chair a little dazed. Sev gently pushes him back up to the table and takes his seat, idly running a hand over his knuckles. Sherlock suddenly feels a whole lot more motivated to win, because Jim looks flattened.

He takes a moment to centre himself, pushing the pain away and getting his focus back before sitting up. Jim slides his rook all the way down the board to capture Sherlock’s and smiles.

“Oops. Your turn, Sherly.”

 

He doesn’t mean the game this time though. Sherlock stiffens but it’s not Severin who stands. Seanán dusts off his knees and walks towards him softly. He moves Sherlock’s chair easily, turning it so the others can see. Sebastian glances at his watch again.

“Go.”

Sherlock tenses but there’s nothing for a moment. He’s half-relaxing when something pinches his neck viciously and he screams, screams without meaning to, without being able to control it. If he could think he might notice Sev watching with interest or Jim practically salivating across the table, but there’s nothing in his mind but unending pain and the blank face watching him from above. It stops, and he barely has time to recover his breath before there’s another pinch to his shoulder, and this one’s worse. The pain rolls up his arm into his mind until there’s nothing left, no room in his mind palace, no strength to force it away. He doesn’t even hear Sebastian call time, just sways as the agony stops short.

Sherlock slumps back in his chair, not noticing as Sean pushes him back towards Jim and returns to his seat. By the time he’s got some grip on both brain and breathing again, Jim’s grinning madly.

“Isn’t he wonderful?”

“A true master.” Sherlock gasps out.

“Do you see the pattern now, Sherly?”

He shakes out his limbs with a wince. “Whenever we lose a piece, we are punished.”

“And the executioners?”

“Severin for you, because brute force gives you no pleasure. Seanán for me because you want to watch me break apart.”

“Top marks! Maybe next time I’ll tell Seanie to give you an easy one.”

“You assume there will be a next time.”

“There always have to be sacrifices in chess.”

 

Sherlock clamps down on a feeling of dread as he feels Sean watching him closely. Jim loses another two pieces in quick succession, his face swelling from the assault, his voice straining as Severin finally dislocates his shoulder. He pops it back in again straight away, but Jim’s jaw is set grimly as his pawn takes Sherlock’s knight.

Sherlock feels a bit more ready this time, knowing what to expect, but his body still aches from before and he doesn’t think he can fight the new pain any better. Seanán cracks his neck as he moves behind Sherlock’s chair, hands sliding down over Sherlock’s shoulders onto his chest. This is different; this is worrying. His fingertips press in and Sherlock can’t breathe. His chest won’t obey his commands, his arms hang limp and his mouth opens and closes like a drowning fish as the air escapes his lungs and refuses to come back. It’s not even that much pressure, not enough to leave marks on his skin, but it’s suffocating. When Sebastian calls him off Sherlock hunches forward, gulping huge breaths down so fast he almost hyperventilates.

“Ready to go on, Sherly?”

He coughs. “Of course.”

They’re both more cautious after that, castling their kings, chasing each other around the board. They each lose another pawn. Severin targets his blows on Jim’s body, anxious not to concuss him. Seanán changes his tactic again; opting for a switchblade he scores very shallow lines over the back of Sherlock’s hands. It’s like burning paper cuts, and it’s that much harder for Sherlock to concentrate. He loses another pawn almost immediately and gets hit with more pinches. He actually thinks he prefers them to the lack of breath.

There’s a very long period when neither of them surrender another piece, both too determined to avoid pain to take any risky moves. Then Sherlock captures a knight, and while Jim’s being pounded in the kidneys he realises he can take out several key pieces – if he’s willing to lose the same.

Sherlock almost cringes at the thought. He’s starting to flinch every time Jim picks up a piece. But they’re so evenly matched the only way he can prevent Jim getting an advantage is to cripple them both. The question is whether he’s willing to undergo the pain now if he gets to live later.

Jim watches him closely as he thinks, time dragging on. Sherlock knows he has to do it but his body fights him, fingers refusing to move. Jim’s eyes flash impatiently and the detective closes his eyes, taking a breath.

He unleashes his attack, drawing Jim in so he has to retaliate. In five moves they lose two pieces each, Sherlock’s stare taking on an almost sadistic gleam as his bishop nudges Jim’s queen off the board. They’re both panting at the end of it, Jim gripping the edge of the table weakly to hold himself up, his eye swelling shut on one side. Sherlock feels dizzy, blood seeping through the cuts on his hands, his neck refusing to support the weight of his head.

It scares them both apparently, because for about twenty turns nothing happens but stalling. Sherlock can see Severin getting more and more bored as they move to no effect. By the time they engage again they’re both down to four pieces. Jim’s are only pawns and his king, while Sherlock has a nice mixture that he hopes will give him enough of an edge. He idly calculates that even if in the course of the game he loses fifteen pieces that’s only seven and a half minutes torture, and he can surely stand that. He doesn’t dare to think about the chance neither of them will win and they’ll have to do this all again.

 

The play is slower, the opponents tired mentally and physically. Sherlock takes another two pawns but it’s an effort. Even Severin seems to have slowed down as he resorts to open slaps, irritating Jim’s already abused flesh.

“Looks like that orgy will have to wait a while, Jim.”

“At least I’ll have a trio of sexy nurses to tend to my wounds.” He grins through a split lip.

The numbers have swayed in Sherlock’s favour. He risks another look at Seanán. He looks almost disappointed and Sherlock wonders if Jim promised he could kill the man himself if he lost. It fills him with a sudden burning anger. He was Sherlock Holmes for fuck’s sake, and he could outsmart a half-stunned Moriarty any day. He wasn’t a toy for someone else to break.

The indignant rage chases off some of his aches and clears his mind, and within five turns he’s got Jim backed into a corner. As he places his last piece Sherlock feels a flood of relief.

“Checkmate.”

It’s incredibly quiet. Jim taps his fingers on the edge of the table, Sev and Sebastian unconsciously leaning forward in their seats. Seanán seems to know where this is going though; he doesn’t stir, though his eyes are fixed on his boss. Sherlock’s gripped with a momentary doubt. Will Jim honour the conditions of the game, or blow his brains out right here? Worse, will he hand Sherlock over to the triplets? He’s too sore to move. If Jim wants to renege on the deal, there’s nothing Sherlock can do about it. But after about ten minutes Jim sits back with a laugh.

“Seanán?”

Sherlock’s heart speeds up, something clogging his throat as his eyes whip wildly between them. He can’t even begin to hide his shock at the betrayal. Sean steps forward as Jim beckons him.

“Take our guest home.”

“What?”

It’s out before Sherlock can stop it, and he’s starting to think the torture did some brain damage because there’s no way he just said that. Jim raises a brow with an amused smirk.

“You thought I’d go back on my word? No Sherly, even if I had no problem breaking a promise to you, I could never disappoint my cherubs here. We have an arrangement, which means unfortunately I must give you up.”

“That’s it? You won’t come after me again?”

“Provided you’re no direct threat to me and mine. Solve your cases Sherly, save your damsels, and forget I exist.”

Severin comes forward to help him out of his chair, Jim groaning as they stumble towards the door. Sebastian gives Sean a pointed look before following.

“Well. It’s a shame we won’t have a chance to get better acquainted, Sherlock. I was just getting started.”

He holds his side, voice low and weak. “Forgive me but I don’t think I could endure any more of your ‘acquaintance’.”

Seanán laughs. “One day I’d like to find someone unbreakable, just so it never has to end.”

He presses his fingers to Sherlock’s neck and the detective automatically flinches, but there’s no pain this time. His eyelids droop and he slumps forward. Sean lifts him effortlessly and opens the door, carrying him out.

*****

Jim doesn’t get over Sherlock overnight, but he has his bruises to distract him and stop him pulling up the cameras again. He wonders if Sev’s beating has conditioned him to avoid Sherlock. He was a little disappointed with the end to that story, but secretly Jim couldn’t be more pleased. It would have broken his heart if Sherlock had turned out to be _ordinary_. And the memory of his screams make up for any lost opportunities to play.

Jim has bigger worries now. He’s sleeping alone while he heals but the triplets are not making it easy. Every time he turns around it’s Severin doing push-ups in the lounge room in nothing but his underwear, or Seanán making Jim lick his finger to ‘taste the alfredo sauce’,  or Sebastian conveniently falling asleep on the couch with his head in Jim’s lap. This torture is worse than any punch or bloody nose.

He’s eating dinner at the table when Seanán leans over and rubs his thumb over Sebastian’s chin.

“You’ve got a little something…”

Jim slams down his cutlery and flees the room. He flops onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow so no one can hear his screams of frustration. A hand touches his calf and he looks up. The three of them are kneeling on the bed, identical gorgeous blond heads almost touching.

“Sebby says you’re almost back to normal.” Severin tickles his ankle with his fingertips.

“Fully recovered, in fact.” Sean nods.

Jim’s grin grows until his face feels like it’s going to split in two. He rolls onto his back and spreads his arms.

“Well go on, children. Where’s Daddy’s reward?”

They smirk back, three animals sighting their prey.

**Author's Note:**

> Seanán’s been part of my headcanon pretty much since I discovered Severin and was like 'Two Sebastians? Awesome!' and then decided three was even better.
> 
> Plus the idea of Jim thoroughly outnumbered but loving it makes me giggle


End file.
